


Assorted Ficlets and Drabbles

by wangler



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-01
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 10:02:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1184920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wangler/pseuds/wangler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Putting all my smaller works (generally from Tumblr or just never shared) in one place. Please see individual chapters for content labels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. If you listen carefully

**Author's Note:**

> 1: If you listen carefully _(Derek/Stiles, future fic, vague spoilers up to 3x18, romance)_  
>  2: Failsafe _(Derek/Stiles, Scott, Stiles, MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH IMPLIED, spoilers up to 3x18)_  
>  3\. Why are you doing this? _Derek/Stiles, future fic, Nogitsune aftermath, recovery, drabble, spoilers for up to 3x18)_  
>  4\. Twice _(Derek/Stiles, drabble, future fic, Lydia/other, fluff, weddings)_  
>  5\. Raw and warm _(Derek/Stiles, established relationship, future fic, fluff, recovery)_

Scott’s pack tears down the old Hale house and builds a bigger home on the property to set it up as an actual licensed group home which is a pain in the ass, times about a million, but in the end makes it easier to take in the orphaned werewolves and stray omegas who have heard that the McCall pack is firm but not ruthless, and that Beacon Hills is under the protection of a true alpha.

Lydia’s studying environmental law and even though it isn’t her area of expertise — who are we kidding, everything is her area of expertise — she helps draft up the paperwork and Scott stays up studying for weeks to get certified in everything he’s supposed to be certified in. Which feels like a waste of time (because werewolves) except he actually did not ever know CPR (except on dogs and that one time was so gross) and it’s nothing like it is on TV so he’s kind of glad he worked that one out.

"Dude," Stiles says, when Scott explains his CPR triumph over celebratory dinner the week before Hale House opens. "You didn’t know CPR?"

"Oh, like you did."

"Yes. I’ve known CPR since we were twelve." Stiles forks a potato and smiles to himself.

And Derek says, “Don’t make this about kissing my sister again.”

"Still sorry I missed that." Cora gently smacks the side of Stiles’ head as she walks by, bouncing her daughter on her hip like she does every night between 4 and 9pm because apparently werewolf colic is the actual worst.

By Thanksgiving, the property is bustling with werewolves. Scott organizes them into groups and holds behavior and negotiation seminars with the Argent clan, and the kids are appropriately scared of Allison Argent. Because everyone knows she’s the most accurate marksman in North America and everyone _says_ that one time she died and came back to life after fighting her way out of hell with throwing knives and ninja stars.

There’s enough room to fight and climb and play. Derek’s a deputy now, and his influence at the station seems to be enough to keep patrols off the property. It isn’t unusual to go for a morning walk and see a 13-year-old about 40 feet up in a towering oak, leaping from branch to branch.

So it doesn’t startle Stiles when the kid drops into the dry leaves at his feet. It does surprise him, even though he knows better, when the kid stammers an incoherent apology, only managing to get something about _emissary_ and _didn’t see you there_ and _don’t put a spell on me okay_.

"You can just call me Stiles," he says. He can’t really do magic — not the kind every werewolf on the West Coast seems to think he can — but it’s close enough and too hard to explain and he doesn’t mind that it keeps the kids at a distance. As long as they’re not scared, because distant is good and scared is bad and he still can’t believe Scott talked him into doing this.

The kid nods and dashes off, long-limbed and scrambling like a puppy spooked by a thunderclap.

The house might be new, but it’s haunted, they say. The upstairs attic — that’s where the emissary lives. He’s sort of like a wizard guy, basically. His tattoos can turn into ghost animals and he can build traps that work on anything, no matter what.

Only Deputy Hale is brave enough to go up there.

"I smell takeout," Stiles says, wandering out of the shower to the pungent, perfect aroma of hot Thai soup. He doesn’t even bother with a towel because Derek’s going to take it anyway and that’s fine because the uniform still hasn’t gotten old and it’s — it’s basically the best.

"That’s for later," Derek says, lifting him onto the dresser.

"Oh — kay."

Stiles’ books go tumbling down. The whole pile thuds against the hardwood floor and Stiles laughs until Derek smothers the sound away with a hard kiss.

If you listen carefully, you can hear the weird noises of the emissary doing magic up there.


	2. Failsafe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2: Failsafe _(Derek/Stiles, Scott, Stiles, MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH IMPLIED, spoilers up to 3x18)_

When the dark fog dissipates, the air smells like rain and electricity. It's a clean smell. After the rancid, heavy scent of demon's breath, Derek welcomes it.  
  
But the clear air reveals the stillness of Stiles' body against the gnarled surface of the nemeton. Knotted vines circle Stiles' wrists and torso like rope. The vines crumble to dust at Derek's trembling touch -- despite how fast they held when the demon screamed and fought.  
  
Stiles is bleeding. But he doesn't wince. He doesn't move.  
  
Scott's there too, climbing onto the huge stump beside Stiles. "His heart is beating," he says, as if he expects Derek to argue with him.  
  
Derek doesn't want to argue. He feels heavy and hurt, and he can hear it too. He can hear every lengthening back-beat. It's like a metronome winding down.  
  
They both startle when Stiles' breath catches in a faint cough and his eyes open, blinking away the dust on his lashes. His gaze is clouded with pain and exhaustion, but it's Stiles. It's so achingly him that Derek's claws catch in the soft wood beside Stiles -- a failsafe against howling his grief.  
  
"Hey," Stiles exhales, nose twitching with something like a smile when Scott collapses over him, gentle and nudging, more animal than human because it's easier that way. Derek understands.  
  
Derek wants to say hey back. Or this will sound weird, but I missed you. Or are you all right, does it hurt? Derek's always wondered if it hurts to die.  
  
Instead he touches Stiles' bruised face and breathes out hard.  
  
"Can I go to sleep now?" Stiles asks, the words coming slowly, each one a marathon. His eyes are already closed again.  
  
"Yeah," Derek says. And there's the howl threatening to erupt, a thickness at the back of his throat. But he waits and lets the silence cradle them, so he doesn't miss a heartbeat.  
  



	3. Why are you doing this?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 3\. Why are you doing this? _Derek/Stiles, future fic, Nogitsune aftermath, recovery, drabble, spoilers for up to 3x18)_

There won’t be romance, or even affection. Just stillness and acceptance and rage and stubborn, gentle patience.

Derek will be there as long as it takes.

It won’t be soon. It will feel like forever, like an endless cycle of repetitive days. Long afternoons of silence sitting on the porch of the Hale House, looking out into the woods, avoiding the shadows. But one day Stiles will run out of ways to tell Derek to leave, to try to chase him off. He’ll get tired of the feeling of his own sharp tongue and he’ll scrub a traitorous tear away and he’ll ask, “Why are you doing this?”

"I don’t know," Derek will say. 

And Stiles will laugh out a sound Derek’s become familiar with. It isn’t a happy sound. “Well that’s a lot of dedication for I don’t know, dude.”

A bird will call out, high above them, and Stiles will startle, because he’s still not good with sudden noises, and Derek will say, careful with his words, “I don’t know how to tell you.”

Derek will hold his breath.

Stiles will look down, counting his fingers, one by one, and he’ll smile like a ghost. “Okay.”


	4. Twice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Twice _(Derek/Stiles, drabble, future fic, Lydia/other, fluff, weddings)_  
> 

"And you’re sure 28 isn’t too young to get married?" Stiles asks. Again.

"Yes, Stiles. I was sure last year when I got engaged," Lydia says. "And last month when I gave the caterer my final deposit. And I’m currently also sure, this morning."

It’s not that Stiles doesn’t approve of Lydia’s soon to be husband. It’s just, they’re not even 30 yet, and the guy’s from out of state and doesn’t know about Beacon Hills’ colorful history, and maybe he’s an astrophysicist and all, but is anyone really intelligent enough to keep up with Lydia Martin? Doubtful.

Lydia adjusts his bow tie. “Stiles, you’re not allowed to have cold feet on my wedding day.”

"He always has cold feet," Derek says, appearing just behind Stiles and nearly causing him to jump right out of his linen suit. Werewolves, man.

"Derek, will you take him somewhere and calm him down before he gives me nerves that I am most decidedly not feeling at all, and if I was it would only be because my mother and father are currently sitting within 20 feet of each other and not at all because I’m wearing stilettos under 27 pounds of French silk."

"He already did that," Stiles says. "Twice."


	5. raw and warm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 5\. Raw and warm _(Derek/Stiles, established relationship, future fic, fluff, recovery)_

It’s nights at first. Derek counts them by the handfuls. When the handfuls stretch into weeks, he marks them with the calendar on his phone. The months, he remembers without counting. One after another, until a year stretches by and another lies before them and the future finally feels like an opportunity.

Even with so much time put to rest, Derek still marvels at the sight of Stiles sleeping. He stays up long nights, no longer vigilant, not afraid, but awed. Stiles’ mouth is softer when he sleeps. He drools when he curls onto his side. His bare feet are broad and long. His fingers twitch against the sheets and he snuffles and hums, and sometimes he smiles.

Sometimes Derek brushes his lips against Stiles’ in the night, breathes his air, listens to the whoosh-thump sound of his pulse.

Waking up is still a fight, but these days it’s a scuffle, not a war. The sheets rustle, and Stiles lets out a quiet sound of confusion, and reaches. Derek holds still — he learned long ago not grasp him or jostle him awake. When Stiles’ fingers brush against Derek’s bare belly, he opens his eyes, squints, and then presses close, close, close, humming out a happy sound, putting his hands on Derek, angling his hips toward Derek.

"Good morning," Stiles says, all morning breath and morning wood and mussed-hair.

Derek covers him, grinds their bodies together until Stiles arches, gasps, goes pink and wanting. It took nights and weeks, long months and the comforting rhythm of the seasons, for a notion to carve itself out beneath his ribs — a private etching he hopes Stiles can feel, hopes he knows, when he kisses him until their lips are as raw and warm as what he feels.


End file.
